


Kintsukuroi

by PKA



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #ItsStillBeautiful, Angst, Basically it's very painful, I don't even know how to tag this, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, and that's all you need to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PKA/pseuds/PKA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will wishes to die, but doesn't. He is left broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His instinct is telling him to let go.

Maybe his body is thinking that it would be easier to survive the fall like that. Or maybe human motivation is like that of a cat that tries to hide to die alone. But his mind is clinging to the entity next to him, to Hannibal, tells his body to maintain silence, to accept that this is the only option. The only option that remains, after all the alternatives have come to naught or have been impossible to even imagine.

They fall for half an eternity and yet it's only a few seconds. Never before has he felt so alive. Adrenaline from their fight with the Dragon is pumping through his veins, fills his blood with strength and fire. His senses are sharper than ever, his heart ablaze. He is ready.

He sees Hannibal's gray cashmere sweater and, in sharp contrast with that, the red blood clinging to his jaw and throat. He sees every wrinkle, every pore, every jerk of the muscles beneath his skin, even though the night is dark.

He imagines that he can smell the hormone's aroma that Hannibal's body is releasing – heady acid, stimulating his appetite. He smells iron. Hannibal's blood. The blood of a Dragon. His own.

He can taste it on his tongue and even though he knows better, he believes for a second that he himself has torn a piece out of Francis Dolarhyde with his teeth. He tastes the ember in his esophagus – a smoky flavor, as if he has once again enjoyed a fine, expensive whiskey in Hannibal's old office.

He can hear the beat of Hannibal's heart, his pulse, his blood pressure. Hears the silence of his thoughts, the capitulation of his brain at death's door. He hears his quick, trembling breathing and knows that it trembles not from his injuries.

He feels, and that is perhaps the most glorious thing of all, the heat of Hannibal, the flames licking up between them. His body is so soft and pliant, inviting, opening up. For him.

And then they hit the adamant surface of the Atlantic and the Dragon's fire dies instantly, yielding under the coldness and wetness of the relentless sea.

His body shatters into pieces, is squashed, crushed, destroyed. Even worse than that is that he can hold onto Hannibal no longer. His body loses control, his arms go heavy and Hannibal is gone.

The sea yanks him down as if it has waited just for him. He is to be consumed and devoured. This is his predetermined end – if not by Hannibal's mouth, then by the ocean's maw, greedy and impatient like a green lover. It rips his wounds further open, fills him with saltwater that should burn, but doesn't.

All his senses, so distinct and strong up until now, are dying an unsung death. It's black around him, or maybe his eyes have just stopped obeying him. No trace of Hannibal. Their link is broken, even before death could part them.

And then something grapples him. He is surprised that his hand can even feel the touch. He is pulled up, to the surface and his body is, to his own amazement, still whole. Not like it has been before, like that it will never be again, but alive nonetheless. And there is Hannibal, weak and abased, but just as alive.

It's difficult to keep his eyes open, difficult to see through all the blood and the water and the darkness, but he can still see the shimmer in Hannibal's eyes.

»Will,« he says, barely audible. It's a plea and a prayer. »Will.« Again, more powerful this time. The word reaches Will's brain with some delay. It takes him a moment to realize what it means. Oh. His name. 

Hannibal is pulling him ever closer, his strength boundless, even now. Will would like to feel him, the familiar warmth he has felt a few moments ago, but it is gone. What remains is icy cold. And there it is, the awaited, searing pain, the only thing left of the Dragon, utterly imbuing and blocking out everything else.

»It hurts,« Will manages to say. He doesn't recognize his own voice.

His breath is shallow and slow. Every intake is an active decision, threatening to tear him apart again. Every rib, every bone, every cell in his body feels wrong, bent, broken. How can breathing be so painful?

»It hurts,« he says again and doesn't know if his words are even comprehensible, are even reaching Hannibal, if he isn't dead already, like he should be. A sudden, brilliant sting colors the insides of Will's eyes red and forces him to whimper like a beaten dog.

»It hurts so much.« Barely a whisper, and yet a grumble, a clap of thunder. His voice is breaking.

He can hear the calling of the depths of the sea. It's taunting him with promises of salvation. He just has to let go. Put his head back, close his eyes and wade into the quiet of the stream. 

»Will.«

Closer, but faint. Hannibal, who holds him, who presses him close, who won't let him drift away. Egoistic.

Will looks up at him again and finds in his eyes the thing that keeps him alive. If he hadn't known before, if he had subjugated the rational being inside of him all this time, he would know now, at last, that Hannibal loves him. 

»Don't let go.«

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that future chapters won't have quite that many climaxes.  
> (I'm talking about the rhetorical device, you pervs.)


	2. Chapter 2

They remain motionless. 

Hannibal has pushed them back, against the cliff, to where the water isn't beating on them relentlessly from all sides. Here they stay, and wait. To die, Will assumes, since Hannibal makes no attempt to change their position or to try and reach dry land. He keeps Will close. Their heaving breaths merge, until their bodies move as one, until they share their remaining strength and until there is only one heart beating in the two of them. Intimate.

Hannibal's breathing grows more labored with time. With his head pressed against Hannibal's chest, Will can distinctly hear how even his strength succumbs to the will of the water. One of the arms that is twined around him retreats, and presses against Hannibal's side instead, where the bullet wound is bleeding mercilessly, where salty blood mixes and exchanges with salty water.

Hannibal's face is wan in the moonlight and continues to pale further.

»What is taking her so long?« he murmurs. It sounds strained.

Will wants to ask what he means, but he is unsure if he still can, if the icy floods haven't flash frozen and taken away the biggest part of him already. It would have been nicer if it had gone down quicker and more smoothly, but this is fine, too, Will thinks. He closes his eyes, but Hannibal shakes him until he looks up again.

»Stay with me,« he says. Will can barely hear him over the sound of the roaring sea, but he continues talking. »Can you see the discrepancy between the beauty I wanted and the terror you conducted? Is this your reckoning, Will? Slow and torturous death for us both; atonement for our sins?«

Will shakes his head as good as he can. It feels horrible, as if he is going to be sick any moment now. A concussion. God, it's so _cold_.

»You failed, Will. You failed to kill us. God feigns ignorance. And now you must live, broken as you are. I won't let you die.«

 _I won't let you die_. It's a gruesome promise, but it causes a warm feeling to spread in Will's belly. He's almost able to smile. Will tries to huddle closer to Hannibal, but his body doesn't comply. Hannibal draws him nearer instead.

And then a ray of light hits them. Will feels Hannibal's loosened breath, feels his heartbeat hasten, feels how his body regains hope.

Hannibal tries to swim toward the source of light, and even though Will is no longer in any condition to help him, he attempts to be as little of a burden as he can. 

Will muses about the FBI, muses about what Jack will do when he gets Hannibal. They will drag Will on board and toss Hannibal back into the water, finishing the work Will started. They will wait until Hannibal drowns and only then will they salvage his lifeless body to claim it was an accident.

Another attempt at saying Hannibal's name, to utter a warning, but Hannibal hushes him. »Try not to talk.«

The light comes closer, the world goes brighter and Will can see Hannibal clearly again. His face is tense and full of determination. He looks like a predator, fighting for its life even in the most forlorn situation. He will bring down his prey, even if it costs him his last breath. 

They reach the boat and a ladder comes down next to Will.

»Can you climb?« a familiar voice asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. »Help him in first,« he says, exhausted, and maneuvers Will against the ladder.

Two dry arms reach for him and haul him out of the water, together with Hannibal's help. If he had more power, Will would try to resist, resist being ripped away from Hannibal. Like it is, he can only witness how his own body is being pulled into the dry, while Hannibal remains in water. 

Breathing is even harder, outside of the ocean. His body is made out of lead; gravitation pushes him down to the ground. He can't even move his head to look at his savior. Relief reaches his heart when he notices that Hannibal is being hauled into the boat as well.

Will's heartbeat is slowing down, his eyes are growing heavy. He closes them once more. His breath calms. His resources are depleted for good. He is glad, on some level, that death seems to be mostly painless in its final stage.

And there is the shaking again. Hannibal, who won't let him go. Will can open his eyes only a little, and even then black dots are dancing in front of them. Next to Hannibal is the person that dragged him into the boat. Her hair is longer now, but she still has the same dark, black-rimmed eyes, the same exotic beauty. He can remember the taste of her lips distantly, and the feeling of her bullet in his shoulder.

Hannibal talks to her, gives her instructions and she goes away to do his bidding. 

After she leaves, Hannibal talks to him. But Will doesn't understand a word, can listen only to his own breathing, to his own faintly, slowly beating heart.

Will smiles in lieu. He tries to grab Hannibal's wet sweater for all he is worth, but fails. Hannibal takes his hand instead, squeezes, makes sure Will can feel the touch. Will is very familiar with those hands. Hannibal's hands are calm and sovereign, warm and confident. The hands of a chef, of a surgeon, of a serial killer. The hand that holds his own right now is nothing of the above. This hand is cold and shaky.

And then it is over. He can resist the pull no longer. The ground opens up beneath him and he is being dragged down, slips into a miasma of blood and darkness.

The last thing Will can hear are hasty footsteps and a single one of Hannibal's sentences.

»Promise me, Chiyoh, that if I faint, you'll save him.«


	3. Chapter 3

Will awakes slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep. He experiences a blissful moment, in which neither his body nor soul remember anything, in which nothing has happened and in which the world is still at peace. Once reality hits he realizes that he can't move. The pain comes next, forces a moan out of him and makes him wish to find his way back to sleep again. It is hopeless. 

He is not in the water anymore. It's warm. He is lying in a bed. He's safe.

Thoughts pelt on the inside of his skull like rain - memories and things of which he isn't sure if they are true or fabricated by his fantasy. He is not sure how much he wants to know, if he can risk opening his eyes and face actuality.

It takes a lot of effort and willpower, but, in the end, he does it.

Another pair of eyes stares down at him. Eyes that show him too much, even in his current state. Too much love, too much concern, too much relief. But something is wrong.

They aren't brown.

»Will?«

The voice sounds familiar. But it isn't Hannibal's. Too feminine.

Will tears his eyes away and lets them wander through the room. He can't move his head, but even from his restricted point of view it is obvious that he is in a hospital room.

A question pushes past all others and can't be contained. »Where... is he?« Will is croaking, barely anything human left in his voice. His cheek throbs.

The pair of eyes changes. Will can see something fade away inside them – something dulls down, dies away even – and he sees a wall being raised, preparation for incoming pain.

Molly's mouth is pursed. She shakes her head.

He is not here. He is not here, but Will is. Panic starts rising in his chest.

»It's a miracle you're still alive,« Molly says. Her voice is sad.

He would like to utter a joyless laugh, but his body has not enough energy.

»A miracle,« Will repeats and sounds as ironic as he can muster.

Molly starts to tell him about his ailments: his broken bones and injured ribs, his severe concussion, the Dragon's stab wounds, hypothermia from his dip into the Atlantic in a cold night in march... A lot of little aches and pains that don't really bother Will. He knows what she is trying to say. That it should have been impossible for him to survive. Will is aware. It was his plan, after all. But it should be just as impossible that they both survived and are yet separated.

Will remembers Chiyoh's presence, remembers the boat, remembers Hannibal, bent over Will, steely determination in his eyes, and the pressure of his hand, as if Hannibal planned to never let him go.

»How did I... get here?« Will asks, interrupting Molly in listing his sicknesses. 

She halts for a moment and Will can tell by the way her posture adjusts that he has hurt her. It doesn't bother him. He knows it should.

»A woman dropped you off,« she explains curtly. Perhaps she doesn't know more. Or perhaps she doesn't want to say it.

Will wants to know why.

»Jack?« he asks. Words exhaust him.

Will touches the wound in his mouth with his tongue, feels the fresh stitches. They are not perfect – done by a shaky hand. He does not have to ask to know that Hannibal made them. To sweep over the individual stitches with the tip of his tongue feels like touching Hannibal, like seeing a past Will can't recall, for he was unconscious.

»He's here,« Molly says. The corner of her mouth twitches in the same way it always does when she is not fond of something. »You shouldn't talk to him yet. You need to rest. Are you in pain?«

»I'm fine,« Will says, even though he feels an unpleasant tapping in the Dragon's wounds and notices how changed his body is with every breath he takes. He wonders how he looks like. If he will ever look like he did before. If the wound on his face will disfigure him. It's not like outer appearances were ever that important to him. But...

Molly leans over him as if she could read his thoughts. She strokes his hair. He can feel the touch - it's comforting and soothing that he can still feel something that doesn't hurt at the same time. A part of him is sure that this will be the last calming touch she will afford him.

»You won't give up, will you? I'll send him in,« she says. Will would like her to be mad. It would be easier to deal with than with sympathy, with silent frustration and feelings from which he knows that they'll fade eventually. Change is painful and so is the knowledge that this, here, is going to be the end, no matter how hard Molly tries. Will knows. His empathy is like a crystal ball, showing the future without mercy.

Molly had told him he looked differently, back when she was the one laying in a bed like this, after the attack of the Dragon. Will wonders if she can see all of him by now. If she can see through the gapes and the wounds, into his body. If she can see the monster lurking within. Has she noticed by now who her husband is? Who he pretended to be, for her? Whoever he might have been, he's gone now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm sorry.~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shortest chapter!

Jack's tension is obvious, even from the way he closes the door behind him. Once he has come closer to the bed, Will notices that he looks tired and impatient. Will tells him where Hannibal's house is located, before Jack can even politely ask him how he's feeling.

He makes a quick phone call and sends a team to the crime scene. Will can hear the names of Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price. He wonders how close to the truth they'll get, with the traces of blood and their cellular evidence left behind.

»What are we going to find there?« Jack asks once he hangs up.

Will closes his eyes. »A dead Dragon.«

He doesn't need to hear Jack's order to know that he is expected to continue talking. He retells the events with a strange indifference to it, even the murder. It is tiring to talk, tiring to explain it - an event that isn't meant for words, shouldn't be put in them, especially not from Will, in his current condition. His cheek is throbbing, but he recounts everything – expect for their embrace. And his perception that it was beautiful. The media, especially Freddie Lounds, will change his version anyway. No need to spur them on further, no need to risk his reputation even more.

»I lunged at him and pulled him off the bluff with me,« Will says and opens his eyes.

Jack forces eye contact. »What I don't understand is... why did he save you?« He frowns. »He could have killed you or simply let you drown. Your wounds were already stitched when you came here, even though your condition was... bad. You wouldn't have survived without proper medical treatment.«

So that's the reason. Hannibal told Chiyoh to bring him here in order to _save_ him.

Will tries to ignore the tugging in his chest – the pain of gratitude and the well-known longing. »He didn't fight me when I dragged him over. He let me.«

Astonishment is written on Jack's face and then, very slowly, realization. Will is familiar with that horrible emotion. Knows what it means to be aware of Hannibal's feelings for him, what it changes, for himself and everyone around him. It's a miracle that Jack only notices it now. That he was able to turn a blind eye on it for all these years, longer even than Will himself.

Jack swallows visibly and changes the subject. »How did he ensure your survival?«

Jack's stream of questions doesn't subside. Will desires a new dose of opiates. And sleep.

»Chiyoh must have lived in that house.«

»Do you have any idea where he might go? Did he say anything?«

The thought that Hannibal could leave the country once more without him hurts more than Will cares to admit.

»No, Jack. We didn't talk about that.«

Will is not fast enough to crush the spark of hope that Hannibal will come and take him away with him in time. Three years in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane are a long time to regret a decision. Maybe Hannibal is already lying in a warm, sunny spot in Argentina and enjoying his freedom by himself. Maybe he wants to take revenge on Will for making him wait, without any assurance. Three years or maybe forever.

The uncomfortable truth is that Will chose Hannibal in the end, even if he wanted to die. He can't retreat from that decision. He's at Hannibal's mercy once again.

Will has to swallow at the thought. »Are we done here, Jack?« he asks.

Pity. Not something that he wants to see on Jack's face.

»I'll have more questions for you, once you're feeling better.«

» _If_ I feel better,« Will murmurs, quiet enough that Jack can't hear him.

Jack hesitates before he puts a hand on Will's head, similar to what Molly did a few moments ago. It doesn't feel as good. It's a paternal gesture and Will finds it repulsive. 

»I'll send the nurse in.«


	5. Chapter 5

The days in the hospital are long. Every minute is agony, and Will's progress almost non-existent.

Even weeks later there is a part of him remaining that still believes Hannibal will come to him, once he leaves the hospital. That he is getting the care here Hannibal can't provide him with and after that... then... Will is vague on those details. It was his plan to die, but now he has to survive, _wants_ to survive, because Hannibal is out there. There is no use in killing the monster within himself if the true terror is on the loose.

Not even his memory palace is a safe haven anymore. His stream is gone. Instead he finds himself in a half-collapsed and flooded _Capella Palatina_. He sits on top of the stairs and casts he rod – right into the graven skull where Hannibal's heart once stood. Will has never caught anything in this part of his memory palace, but it's the only place he dares to go. He's afraid of the other rooms, of the thing that evolved from within him, that is part him and part Hannibal.

Their palaces have melted together and so it's not surprising that Will finds Hannibal here, more often than he likes. He appears randomly and abruptly, sitting beside Will, watching him fish. The sun shines down on him through a crack in the ceiling, making him look more radiant than even the image of Jesus in their backs.

»I'm not save from you anywhere, am I? Not even in my mind?« Will asks. Hannibal haunted him in many ways in the years of his confinement, but never like this.

It's been years since Will has seen him in one of his suits, but he never wears anything else inside of his head. His hair is as long as it was before his incarceration and brushed back, too. It emphasizes the scar on his cheek.

Hannibal smiles, closes his eyes and enjoys the rays of sunshine on his pale skin. »No,« he says. »Not after what we have become together.«

It's toxic to think of him like this, toxic to indulge in hopefulness. Will fights it as long as he can. It's in vain. He has fought the yearning for years. Now it is his only friend.

~ - ~

Will stops counting the days after four weeks. For some time, Molly visited, almost every day. Sometimes with Walter, sometimes with one of the smaller dogs, smuggled into the hospital in a bag.

But Will can't keep the cold from his voice, the resignation that grows every day. He hates being here, in a world he doesn't belong in anymore, not after what happened to Dolarhyde. Molly knows. They don't have to talk about it. Their relationship was never built upon talking about things like these. It was built on the desperate need to ignore, to try and be something that Will now knows he cannot be. It hurts to see her like this, to belie her expectations. Or at least it should hurt. It would have been a lot more gracious to drown in the depths of the ocean, even if it was only feigned. 

And so her attendances become more infrequent, until she starts to cry one afternoon without Will being able to solace her. She goes. And doesn't come back.

~ - ~

Will is grateful that Zeller and Price spare him the awkwardness of a visit. Jack's presence is enough. He asks about Dolarhyde, about Chiyoh, about a lot of things Will knows nothing about and even more things that he doesn't want to think about. Jack tells him the official narrative Will is not supposed to contradict. Hannibal is dead, drowned, and even if Will's involvement in the Tooth Fairy's death can't be denied, the populace shows more interest in being rid of both him and Hannibal the Cannibal.

Jack manages to keep the press away from Will – those that want to praise him and paint him as a national hero as well as Freddie Lounds, who doubts the story and doesn't believe in Hannibal's death. 

Will finds himself thinking about Reba McClane a lot. He envies her. She can be entirely certain that she is free of her personal terror – Will can vouch for it. There are no What-if questions for her. Her lurid tale has found an end. She can start anew.

~ - ~

Alana calls, shortly before he is released. Will thinks about sharing with her, for just a moment. She would listen to him, she would _understand_ him. She would pity him. He refrains.

»You're not the only one having experience with fall damage,« she says. It's supposed to sound comforting.

Will can hear her son in the background and Applesauce's barking. He misses his own dogs.

They are all scarred, but Alana has fought her way back to life. It's a good life. A life of riches, of love, of family. Will wonders what is better. To have nothing left to lose or to live in constant fear of Hannibal's promised revenge. It has to be always there, scratching at the back of her mind, no matter how happy she is. The possibility that all of this could be over in a second.

»I chose to fall,« he answers. »You didn't.« He hangs up.


	6. Chapter 6

Communication with Molly is something that can't be avoided. Shared belongings have to be split up, legalities need to be figured out. Will lets Molly keep most of their stuff. He just takes his old dogs with him as well as the new member of the pack – the Leeds family's former dog.

Molly sounds collected on the phone. But once Will sees her, when he comes to collect his things, he notices how puffy her face looks, how red-rimmed her eyes are. A different Will, without his experiences, would have put his arms around her. As it is, they say their Goodbyes in a short and awkward fashion. Will leaves his ring in one of the drawers of the cupboard in the hall – where Molly will find it eventually.

The house in Wolf Trap still belongs to him - houses of murderers don't fetch big money in today's real estate market, even if it turns out they aren't murderers after all. Will doesn't plan on staying here, if... He can stay here until he has found something new. A new place to live in, as far away from Baltimore, Jack, the FBI and his old life as he can.

A wave of nostalgia hits Will as he wanders through the old rooms. Memories that are pasted onto the walls like tapestry. Most of them are unpleasant. There is the spot where Will sat after he regurgitated Abigail's ear and Hannibal put a blanket around him. There is the spot where Mason sat when he cut off his own face. There is the spot where Hannibal sat when Will broke his heart. Will looks at the latter a moment longer than on the others.

~ - ~

Most of the dogs still know the house, but it takes them a while to adapt to the lack of presence of Molly, Walter and the rest of the pack. They spend their time developing a new hierarchy.

Will spends his time putting off the search for a new house and ignoring calls. He tries to go fishing a few times, but he is too restless. For the first time in his life the water makes him nervous.

He waits. And waits. And waits.

He won't be the one crossing the Atlantic with a boat he repaired by himself. Not again. It's up to Hannibal this time. Will is so easy to find here. 

Inaction is detrimental to his health. Will starts drinking more than usual. It's more bearable when he is drunk. The hope is the most terrible thing, the knowledge that it'll fade, with the weeks, months, years. And still he can't shut out the figments of alternatives where Hannibal hasn't left him behind.

~ - ~

He hears footfalls in the snow outside one evening. He fears that it is only a hallucination, that the stag has found its way out of the depths of his mind. But the dogs can hear it to, it is making them anxious. The new one paws at the door - not yet as well-trained as the others - and wants to be let out.

Will rushes to the window and peeks through. Nothing. He slips on a jacket, takes his shotgun without a second thought and goes outside. The snow sparkles in the sun – it's relentlessly bright. For how long hasn't he left the house?

He squints and looks around, trying to ignore that the world seems to spin a bit more than usual. Then he spots his target.

For a second, it looks like black antlers loom toward the sky. Then he blinks. His eyes adjust to the brightness of the sun. The head in front of him is unmistakable.

He was prepared for this situation, mentally. A miracle, really, that it hasn't come to this sooner. 

»You're trespassing... again, Freddie,« Will says fiercely. »One would think you learned your lesson by now.«

Freddie smiles in the same mindless way she always does, camera in hand, ready to take the picture of the century. Not in Will's front yard. 

»My readers demand to be up to date. You can hardly blame them, with all the turmoil you caused.«

»You didn't manage to sneak into my hospital room, did you? No big, black boxes for me this time.« Will raises his eyebrows. »So what's the next big thing? Guess your shirts don't sell like hot cakes anymore, now that I've killed all your favorite serial killers.«

Freddie's smile grows larger. »Did you now?« she asks with doubt in her voice. »We have a special 'Murder Widow' shirt that doesn't sell too bad.«

»'Widow'?« Will repeats. »Shouldn't it be 'Widower'?«

»We have 'Widower', too, but we don't sell as many of those.«

»Funny,« Will says deadpan. »I'd ask if it doesn't burden your conscience to sell shirts with phrases you don't agree with... but I guess you don't have one.«

Freddie looks delighted despite the insult. It only strengthens Will's dislike of her. »Would you like to give a statement regarding Hannibal Lecter's death?«

It would be stupid to answer truthfully. »Do you think I'd still be here if he were alive?«

»Maybe he left you,« Freddie speculates and hits bull's eye. »Maybe he had a hard time forgiving you for trying to kill him.«

It hurts to hear the truth, but it makes Will angry more than anything else. He approaches Freddie and she stumbles back until she hits the exterior wall of the house. Will doesn't stop moving.

»Did I ever tell you,« Will whispers threateningly, »that I made Hannibal believe that he ate a part of you, when he was really eating a part of Randall Tier?«

_You gotta stop, Graham. Reign in your anger. She'll publish everything you say. It wouldn't be the first time._

The part of his brain that is in charge of good judgment shows no interest in these objections. 

»You wouldn't believe how he looked like when he realized I brought him human flesh. As if he...« Will pauses. _As if he... were in love with me?_

The thought, the unfairness of it, enrages him further. He pushes Freddie's chin up with his gun, lets her bare her throat, savors the uncertainty in her eyes. He persuades himself that he can smell her fear, like Hannibal surely could. 

»What do you think, Freddie?« His voice is shaky. »Would it be easier for him to forgive me if I brought him the real deal this time?«

Will wonders _if_ he would like it if he killed her right now. If it would convince him to come back. If Will would be worthy only through an act like this. Maybe he waits for Will to be incarcerated for murder, only to liberate him... again.

There are few people he really hates, but oh, does he hate Freddie. Of all the people he knows she would be the easiest to kill. She deserves it the most. But he feels no satisfaction when he thinks about pulling the trigger, not like he did with Clark Ingram. He thinks only of the complications that decision would bring with it. She is not a killer, after all.

He lowers his weapon with a sigh. He doesn't need Hannibal to stop him from doing something stupid this time. It's reassuring to know that the reptilian part of his brain has not yet gained the upper hand, even though he enjoyed killing Francis Dolarhyde. A little bit of his humanity still exists within him. Perhaps it's only because Hannibal is not here to share this with him. Perhaps that's one of his unexplored conditions to indulge in murder.

Freddie's big, blue eyes remind him of a pig in panic, led to slaughter. Hannibal would kill her for exactly this reason. She's not worth it, for Will. He leans close to her. She puckers up her lips, disgusted by Will's alcoholic breath.

»Leave,« he says quietly. She does not need to be told twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets just ignore the fact that it's what, like, May by now? And there really shouldn't be any snow in Virginia? It doesn't matter. It's always winter in _Hannibal_.


	7. Chapter 7

Freddie's next article hits like a bomb.

Of course she has recorded their conversation. Of course she thinks he's a danger to the public and should be locked up like a mad dog. She heats up the old debate again. Once more, people start talking abut whether or not he should be held accountable for Dolarhyde's death. 

Will does not partake in it. He lets the phone ring for a few days before he pulls it out of the wall. Reality is a gruesome place and the fantasy world he has built is so much easier to maintain without outer confounding factors. Will rarely leaves the bed – he takes care of the dogs, feeds them and lets them out, and sometimes he even goes shopping, mostly when his stock of whiskey runs out.

Hannibal preoccupies his dreams. Sometimes they talk with each other - in Hannibal's old office, in Will's house or in a new place, a shared home. Sometimes they kill together - people who lack faces and names, or Jack, in a few cases. Sometimes Hannibal kisses him - and sometimes it turns into more. 

Will is acquainted with these dreams – he has been haunted by them now and then in the last three years. If it happened, he pushed away Molly's seeking hand and took a cold shower. Now, alone, with dreams that become more and more frequent, he gives into the urge more often than not. Will think about Hannibal's hands, his mouth, the hot tightness of his body. He wonders what he likes and what he would allow Will to do to him. Will knows that it is unhealthy, that it reinforces his addiction, his fixation. He hardly cares. He hardly cares about anything these days. He calls Hannibal's name in the dark of the night, as if he tries to beckon him, and afterward he wipes away his tears with the intimately familiar feeling of self-loathing.

~ - ~

His mail stacks up and only his deadly boredom convinces him to open a letter from a notary he has never heard about.

Will puts the phone back in once he reads it.

Hannibal has been declared dead. His testament states he has intended for Will to be his sole heir. 

A statement Will hasn't paid a lot of attention to crawls his way up from the back of his mind while he calls the notary: »You're family, Will.«

He takes the money, sells the estate in Baltimore (of course there are interested parties for this house of a murderer in an instant; it's almost an Evil Minds Museum on its own) and the rest of Hannibal's possessions. Then he buys a new house – on Sugarloaf Key, Florida. He doesn't visit it before signing the purchase contract, trusting the pictures on the realtor's website. It wouldn't be bad if it were run-down. A big project would be good for him.

But it isn't run-down. Of course it isn't, not with the princely price tag of almost two million dollars. He doesn't mourn after the money, possibly because it isn't really his own. He'd like to be at least a little bit ashamed for throwing Hannibal's money out of the window, but it proves to be too good of an opportunity to finally fly the coop. 

The structure is located at the end of a settlement with rows and rows of villas. Places of retreat for the rich and beautiful. Will's only criteria was privacy. The property, almost an acre in size, enclosed from water on two sides and from palm trees on the others, provides just that. It's not the same solitude he had in Wolf Trap, but it is enough.

The house is already furnished. Almost all surfaces are made out of granite, stainless steel or expensive wood and the whole estate is white-tiled. It's easy to keep clean, despite the dogs, and especially if one only uses a fraction of the building, like Will does.

The realtor has described the first floor, next to the garage and the carport as the 'party room'. A party room that is almost as big as Will's former house, complete with billiard board, table tennis table and ridiculous leather couch in front of an enormous TV. The rest of the luxurious furnishing is upstairs: the gigantic kitchen, the two bedrooms, the walk-in closet... It reminds him too much of Hannibal, of how he would like it here. And so Will stays downstairs, together with the dogs, and throws out all the decadent crap. He disassembles the bed in the guest room and brings it to the party room. This way, he only has to visit the second floor when he wants to shower, which isn't often, and when he makes himself something to eat, which is even rarer.

The dogs like the lush, tropical garden next to the small strip of sand beach on the property. A few brave ones dare to go into the water after only a few days. They play and frolic. The heat doesn't bother them. It's a nice place. Usually, Will would enjoy the view of the green-blue ocean he has from the jetty. It would be a fantastic place for fishing: The gulf of Mexico on one and the Atlantic on the other side. But the beauty sneers at him. Nothing here feels like it represents what is going on inside him. The sun doesn't care about his suffering. It shines no matter what.

Days ooze, weeks trickle and months seep away into the white sand in front of his door.

Will buys a broken boat and tries to fix it – to have something to do when the whiskey isn't enough. Most days, his hands shake too much to get any efficient work done.

Even if the dogs don't mind, Will has a hard time adjusting to the temperature. It's too hot, even with the air conditioning and the two ceiling fans in the newly structured party room. He can't keep the terrace door open at night because of the dogs, so he habituates himself with sleeping naked and without blankets – if he can sleep at all.

On most days he simply dozes for a couple of hours before it becomes too bright outside and the dogs demand some attention. Tonight, though, it's still dark when the dogs begin to bark. Will awakes out of a light sleep with a start. Something is not right. Winston sits beside his bed, yelping pitifully. 

Something moves outside. Maybe one of the endangered key deer has found its way onto his property, Will thinks. But the noises come closer. It doesn't sound like a wild animal. 

Will doesn't even raise his head. He doesn't mind burglars. They are welcome to strip the second floor and feast on Will's riches. It doesn't mean anything to him. He just wants to be left alone.

The yapping grows louder as the door to the beach – the one Will never locks, not even at night - is slit open. But there is something strange about that, too. Will knows the noises his dogs make and what Buster utters right now are neither sounds of fear nor defense of territory. It sounds rather like... gleeful anticipation. The turmoil quiets down bit by bit, replaced by the happy, collective munching of ever-hungry mouths, until only Winston remains, still beside Will, still whining.

Only then does Will grasp what is happening. The sudden flutter in his belly lets him sink lower into the cushions. 

A smile creeps onto his face, which turns into a grin that stretches his scar.

»Stop feeding people to my dogs!« he says. He is speaking for the first time in weeks. His voice slurs, croaks and quivers.

He can hear shoes on the tile, hears how his visitor stops moving. A cold breath of wind blows through the open door and caresses Will's flushed body.

Will doesn't need to hear his voice – he has identified him simply by the way he walks.

»It's pork.«


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a ton to [ fragile-teacup ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup/) for taking the time to beta!

> _And in the lover's presence, like him he ceases from his pain, and in his absence, like him he is filled with yearning such as he inspires, and love's image, requited love, dwells within him; but he calls it, and believes it to be, not love, but friendship. _\- Plato, Phaedrus (255) _  
> ___

Lucifer stands in front of his bed and brings light back into Will's world. It's always been distress that excites him. And how excited he is by Will's distress. He consumes it so wholly that it's almost curative. A lovely dream that Will is not willing to wake up from.

Will can't see Hannibal for he is lying on his stomach, but he can hear him come closer, hears Winston jump up and bolt with a fearful bark.

Hannibal remains silent. Spontaneous aphasia?

»How many people have you killed in the last few months?« Will asks. It seems like an important question.

»Two,« Hannibal says instantly. »Out of necessity,« he adds. »You might like to know that it did not give me any pleasure.«

Will would love nothing better than to drag Hannibal into bed by his arm, twine his limbs around him and never let him go. He resists temptation.

For a long moment, neither of them does anything.

»It's the middle of the night,« Will says eventually.

He can hear Hannibal chuckle. »Yes, it is.«

Will turns around. His vision blurs and for a moment he sees two Hannibals. Two fantasies made flesh, gifted to him by the alcohol, framed by moonlight. He'd trade them both for the authentic one, though he must admit they are convincing. Painfully so. It's the sweetest kind of torture - his withered heart leaps weakly in his chest at the very sight of him.

Hannibal must have lost weight in the last few months. The pouch that had shown itself in the BSHCI jumpsuit is gone; no more prison food and a lot more exercise. He's not wearing a suit, as Will might have suspected, but is dressed casually and thus is almost unrecognizable. Will has never seen him wear a t shirt before, but now he is – a black one, with a red »Iron Maiden« lettering on top of it. The jeans he's wearing emphasize his thin legs instead of concealing them as his suit pants would do.

He looks like an entirely different human being. Strands of his hair, grayer now, hang over his eyes – a little too short to tuck them behind his ears. Only sunglasses holding his hair back and a cigarette in the corner of his silver stubble-rimmed mouth are missing to make the picture perfect. Will is sure he has both these things with him, for camouflage.

Will can't see much of his facial expression in the darkness, but he can feel how Hannibal looks him over, head to toe. It should be embarrassing and it would be, if he weren't so drunk. This is his subconscious, he reminds himself, and he knows what the result of this dream will be. He also knows how horrible he'll feel in the morning, but that seems like a distant thought. Hannibal is here. Will sees him. And if he comes any closer, he will be able to touch him too. Will deserves a bit of indulgence, from time to time. It's not like he has anything left but his imagination.

»Are you going to make me ask you?« Will inquires.

Hannibal's gaze meets his own and shatters the room around them. »Ask me what?«

»To lie down with me.«

It's a new experience to see Hannibal derailed. »Do you think you are asleep, Will?«

»Does it matter? You'll either be here in the morning or you won't.« Impatience mingles with the blurriness of Will's voice. It's a step back – this distance and Hannibal's hesitation. »Now c'mere.«

Hannibal answers Will's call in slow movements. He starts out by seating himself beside Will on the bed, trying to find an answer in Will's face. And then he lies down next to him, still fully clothed. Will turns onto his side laboriously to take a look at him. Hannibal's eyes are utterly black in the darkness.

His body emanates warmth – too much warmth in the already heated room – and yet Will crawls closer. The first thing he notices is how different he smells. Not like the dusty clothes he wore on the bluff, not like expensive aftershave or blood and death and euphoria. He smells sweaty from the sun, like hard, manual labor and like the cheap fabric of a mass produced shirt. But beneath that is something familiar and indeterminable – the cocktail of fats and proteins that combine to create Hannibal's very own scent.

A sigh escapes Will as he presses his face against the smooth surface of the Iron Maiden overprint at the center of Hannibal's chest. He has been here before. It feels like he belongs here. Like coming home after a long journey.

»Hi,« he says.

Hannibal doesn't move. Even his breath is shallow as he manages to force out a »Hello Will«.

Will wants to ask _why,_ but if he is being honest with himself he already knows the answer. Every possibility yields a little bit of truth.

Hannibal has saved his life. Will's death is unacceptable if Hannibal cannot consume a part of him in commemoration.

Hannibal tried to shoulder the blame so Will would look innocent and be spared more time in prison. Even if they are caught at some point in the future, the foundations have been laid to suggest that Hannibal forced him to come with him. Like Bedelia.

Hannibal left him his money to give him the opportunity to flee. To get to a place where Jack would be unable to reach him. A place where they could be undisturbed. For the time being.

Will has played into Hannibal's hands. Only his hiccup with Freddie was not part of the plan.

Will wants to ask what took him _so long_ , but that is unnecessary as well. The answer is so simple that it hurts: Hannibal likes to see him like this. Pining. Suffering. Giving up every part of his old life, finally. Because Hannibal likes to comfort him after bringing the pain in the first place.

»I lied,« Will murmurs against Hannibal's chest.

»Mm?«

»I lied when I said I wasn't going to miss you.«

»Will-« Hannibal starts, but Will doesn't let himself be interrupted.

»I missed you every day,« he confesses while leaning back. The whiskey makes it easier to look Hannibal in the eyes. »And I hated myself for it. I thought... perhaps someday I wouldn't. But that never happened. It got worse, these last few months, after... after what we did. I felt like you had cut me open again, only that this time, you took a vital organ with you.«

Hannibal's intense expression drills itself into Will's heart. A hunger to fathom and consume every single one of Will's feelings lies in there. »Are you familiar with the Japanese art of Kintsukuroi?«

Will shakes his head.

»It means 'Golden Repair'. The fixing of pottery by adding gold into the lacquer, acknowledging the damage instead of hiding it. Almost philosophical. Accepting change as a part of life.«

»Emphasizing imperfections?« Will asks. »Sounds accurate.«

A hand finds his cheek in the semi-dark, strokes over the scar that hides under the beard Will has grown over the past months. Hannibal's eyes light up. Will averts his gaze.

»Jack thought of you as fragile from the beginning, but in the fall, you have ultimately broken. Broken beautifully, into a thousand pieces, and not all of them have found their way back to be held together with gold. But it makes you stronger, Will: stronger and more beautiful than ever.«

Will laughs joylessly. He becomes deeply aware of the impression he must make, with his greasy, long hair and his alcoholic breath. He is barely more than a bum. An outstandingly rich, yet still unwashed bum.

Hannibal's words feel good and hurt at the same time. It's a glorious and dreadful feeling to be wanted by him, even now, even after all that's happened. It glues his heart together – not with gold, but with love.

Hannibal's hand continually caresses his cheek. Will closes his eyes and leans into the touch. He is not the only thing that has broken. The teacup has as well, and if there is one thing he knows, it is that it will never gather itself back together on its own. But they can fix it together. And maybe, just maybe, it too will be stronger and more beautiful than ever.

»You've changed as well,« Will says. »Not just... visually.«

»You still don't think I am real.«

»Convince me that you are.«

»What do you want me to do, Will?«

»You could take your shirt off, for starters.«

A bold request, but Hannibal complies, sits up and pulls the shirt over his head in a nonchalant way Will has not expected from him. Will reaches for him as soon as his head hits the pillows again. His skin is hot and sweaty under Will's touch. Will traces the exit wound of Dolarhyde's bullet with his fingertips. A soft lump of scar tissue.

»Does it still hurt?«

»No.« Hannibal's voice is breathy. It awakens something in Will, makes him want to chase the feeling of being wanted.

More scar tissue on his back. A wide circle, off-center. Not a normal wound.

»A gift from Mason Verger,« Hannibal explains.

Will's hand ends up on his face, pursuing the scar on his cheek. He feels Hannibal's eyelashes flutter against his fingers. His breath changes subtly – Will can tell by the way it hits his face in warm, slightly quicker puffs.

Will doesn't want to nurture hope, but Hannibal feels so real. His life oftentimes has the quality of a dream, but this, right here, does not.

He wants to ask for something, but he doesn't know how.

»Hannibal,« he manages. His name sounds like a prayer. »Please?«

A shaky exhalation from Hannibal. Will's stomach lurches in what hopefully is flustered anticipation and not the booze wanting to come out again. And then Hannibal touches him.

It feels electrifying. Every nerve of his body stands on end while Hannibal explores him with zeal. He focuses on his scars, just as Will did, mapping him carefully, as if he would be the one to disappear before tomorrow comes.

Will has quite the collection of scars by now, so it takes Hannibal a while to find and seek them all out. Their plunge into the Atlantic awarded Will with many wounds, taking away the smoothness of the skin on his back and giving it an almost battle-worn quality.

»Sorry I'm so-«

»Nonsense,« Hannibal interrupts, allowing no objections.

It's maddening to be so completely wanted. Shortcomings and all. Will has never felt this way before. It's arousing and addictive.

Hannibal saves the smile on his stomach for last. It's special for both of them – a reminder of the first time he let Hannibal willingly inside of him. The imprint of Hannibal's hand over the jagged line is so hot that Will is certain he'll wake with it branded into his skin tomorrow. An even more obvious sign of who it is he belongs to.

It's as far down as Hannibal dares to go. He is stalling. Nervous, maybe, to take the next step with Will so obviously drunk. The moral dilemma of a cannibal. In the end, Will decides for him, pushes his hand lower and takes what he wants from him.

Both their breaths hitch and Hannibal is awfully quiet for a moment, forgetting to inhale again at all. Then his hand begins to move anew and pleasure takes over the last of Will's brain cells.

Will knows he is loud, louder than he would normally allow himself to be. The alcohol loosens his tongue, makes him moan rampantly, makes him call Hannibal's name and say things he doesn't remember a moment later. He pushes his head against Hannibal's chest while he writhes under his touch and holds back a sob.

Hannibal's »Ssssh« reaches his ear with some delay. He doesn't know if he means Will or the dogs. Will can hear Winston's small whimpers, infecting the whole pack with his nervousness. Will is sure he makes a very similar sound from time to time.

It's far from perfect. Hannibal is forced to use his left hand and his grip around Will is both too timid and too firm. Will likes it. It makes it easier to believe that this is real and not concocted by his fantasy. He sneaks an arm under Hannibal, drags him closer, holds onto his shoulder with his other hand, as if he could prevent him from fading away like this. It's almost like an embrace, almost like the clutching at the bluff, and still Will pulls Hannibal closer, half on top of him. Will is weak, vulnerable, defeated. Broken. And Hannibal holds his pieces together.

»Will,« Hannibal says tenderly, but doesn't try to hinder him from his frenzied clasping.

Will makes it hard for Hannibal to continue, but he persists. He strokes and rubs and squeezes, trying to figure out what Will likes, until Will can feel the familiar pull that tells him it'll be over soon.

Hannibal notices, too, and bends forward to kiss Will's face and throat. His stubble scratches at Will's skin. He remembers Hannibal's teeth in Dolarhyde's throat and is too close to completion to care. He surrenders, puts his head back and gives Hannibal better access.

»Will,« Hannibal murmurs anew, spellbound and devoted, while he puts open-mouthed kisses and languorous stripes of his tongue against his Adam's apple.

 _I love your way of saying my name_ , Will wants to say.

 _I love your hand and your lips and those terrifying teeth of yours_ , Will wants to say.

»I love you,« he actually says and not a syllable more. It sounds... clumsy.

Hannibal makes a sound that can only be described as desperate, and quickens the pace of his hand.

It pushes Will over the edge, makes his toes curl and his fingers clench further. It's a short and almost painful height and Will never wants to come down from it.

His heart is pumping vigorously. He can feel the drumbeats all the way up into his closed eyelids. The rhythm slows and the world around him becomes reality once more. His bliss doesn't subside.

His right hand is still clawed into Hannibal's shoulder and Will eases the pressure only reluctantly. He will have bruises tomorrow. Will likes that notion. He lets his hand wander lower, over Hannibal's hips, his waist, his groin. Will cups his erection through the fabric of his pants. Hannibal unwittingly thrusts forward, a suppressed moan on his lips.

»No, Will,« he breathes into Will's ear, before he takes his hand in his own and away. His voice sounds restricted. »If you find you still want to, you may do this tomorrow. For now, you need your sleep.«

Will doesn't let him go, not even to get something to clean up with. Hannibal bends over Will and plucks a few tissues out of the dispenser on the nightstand, removing the mess on Will's stomach as effectively as he can. Then he turns onto his back and pulls Will with him, giving Will the certainty that he'll not to be able to get up without his permission.

Will knows this is a defeat. He hardly cares. It's fine to lose the play for power this time, if it means that Hannibal stays with him.

»Please tell me you're not a dream.«

»Do you dream much, Will?«

Will feels himself getting sleepy. He nestles into Hannibal's chest and closes his eyes.

»I dream of you.«

~ - ~

His hangover is worse than usual. The rays of the morning sun almost blind him when he tries to open his eyes. It's enough time to see that the space in the bed next to him is empty.

His body can't decide if it feels hungry or sick. Will's mouth is dry – and water is the last thing he wants to drink.

A glimpse at the nightstand tells him that the used tissues from his imagined night with Hannibal are gone, too.

If if weren't for the dogs, he would stay in bed and not even bother.

His movements are automatic: petting the dogs, opening the door to the terrace, filling the bowls. The idea of falling back into bed head-first is charming, but Will's stomach is sure by now that it is hunger it's feeling.

He usually takes the stairs to the second floor. Today he takes the elevator.

The olfactory sense is close to the center of the mind, so it's no wonder that it's the scent that makes Will's heart beat faster.

It smells like eggs and onions and like the package of sausages he has kept in his fridge the last two weeks.

Protein scramble.

Hannibal stands in front of the stove wearing the same clothes as the previous day.

»Good morning, Will,« he says, gaze fixed on the frying pan in front of him. »I took the liberty of using your shower – and trying to make breakfast out of these abominations you call ingredients. I hope you don't mind.«

Will is speechless.

The details of his change become even more apparent in the daylight. How muscular his shoulders look in that shirt. How scrawny his legs actually are, in those snug jeans. How he moves in this new role – with the same poise, but with less grace.

When Will doesn't answer him, Hannibal takes his eyes off the frying pan and focuses them on Will, lingering on him before Hannibal regains his composure with two blinks in quick succession.

Will hasn't troubled himself with putting clothes on.

»Would you prefer to take a shower before breakfast?« Hannibal asks.

»Why are you...« His hoarse voice breaks and Will has to clear his throat. »Why are you still here?«

» _We_ will stay here until you have recovered.«

»Recovered?«

Will is being looked over again. It's a medical gaze this time. »You've neglected yourself.«

A harsh contrast to his words from last night. Only now does Will feel the urge to cover himself. He is feeling angry all of a sudden.

»You enjoyed this, didn't you?« he asks resentfully. »Knowing how much I suffered? Did you miss me at all?«

»Not for the last few months, no,« Hannibal says. And then, off his look: »I missed you when I was still under Alana's care. I had more than enough time for it, then. But once I was free, once I knew that I would heal and see you again... I didn't. I was determined. I prepared.« He looks back at the pan. »I thought of you. Often.«

Will closes his eyes and ignores the part of him that thinks that alcohol would be the best solution right now. »I'll take a shower first.«

~ - ~

Hannibal's statement that he has used his bathroom seems to have meant that he simultaneously cleaned it, too. The empty toilet paper rolls are cleared away, new towels are laid out, the black granite surfaces are shining, and the mirror that occupies one side of the wall is freed from water stains and dirt.

Will risks a glimpse. And regrets it.

He takes a long, too-hot shower. His mirror image is more gracious afterwards, but the deep shadows under his eyes and the alcohol-caused bloatedness are not so easily removed. Will entertains the idea of shaving, but the advantage of hiding outweighs the advantage of a younger appearance. Instead, he brushes his teeth until his gums start bleeding.

He gives himself a moment of reflection before going out to meet Hannibal again.

Last night's details are blurry, but he remembers Hannibal's hands and his mouth and that Will told him he... _fuck_.

If he really wanted to, he could give Jack a call. Trade Hannibal in. Maybe Jack would give him a medal, and he could have it professionally framed and hang it on his wall to look at and remind himself of his courage and incorruptibility. It would be a lie. And Will is fed up with living a lie.

Hannibal has set the table on the balcony, from which one can overlook the water. It's another warm and humid day. Will can see the dogs gambolling around. A few of them scare away a pelican with excited barks. He takes his seat next to, not opposite, Hannibal.

»Where's Chiyoh?« Will asks while taking the first bite. It seems like the first time in months that he can actually taste something.

»Close,« Hannibal answers vaguely.

»Why? So you could have made a quick exit if things went the wrong way? Or if I rejected you... again?«

Will feels his body tense, senses the adrenaline rush of the fight-or-flight reaction that warns him about the danger in Hannibal's eyes. His instincts tell him that Hannibal won't allow their separation again. He should be afraid, but it's strangely pleasing.

Hannibal doesn't honor him with an answer.

They dine in silence for a few minutes.

»About what I said yesterday-«

»You need not apologize, Will. I am aware that you were under the influence of alcohol.«

Will leans over to him before he can think better of it. It's a shy first kiss, but it lingers.

»I didn't mean to say it. Doesn't mean it isn't true,« Will says before he continues to eat. He tries to ignore Hannibal's baffled expression.

It's hard to keep from smiling when Hannibal still hasn't moved an inch a minute later.

»Finish your breakfast, Hannibal.«

Anteros smiles down at them. Will knows that he'll never be as he was before. Their relationship will never be as it was before. The delicate shoots of their renewed connection lead down into an unfathomable blackness. But that's fine, Will thinks. Because it's still beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thanks for reading! If you want to read more from this 'verse, you could check out the [ 'Kintsukuroi Timestamps' ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/554860/).  
> Visit me on my [ tumblr ](http://www.pka42.tumblr.com/) !


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